Pretty Pinkie
I'm birthing a six-pack,
she's on her knees egging me on
with the ceiling dripping eggs
while in the kitchen
the band's
piled up like dogs,
snoring,
broke boots bad breath
emptied keg and
burn holes for butter pats.
we were done squatting in traps
though which city's the
question mark,
cursing through unplugged mikes at gas pumps
smashed-up cobwebbed skylights,
charred pop tarts
and a 5-hour straight line-drive.
for what? 15 bucktooth aliens moshing
while hotties come late for the
headliners.
resurrection,
resuscitation,
reincarnation,
all ecstatic feedback
with a chubby line of blow.
we name the baby after the pit bull,
quick call your biker uncle,
I know he tats on the side,
and even freshly inked
I could use a second.
I Wait for You
but the therapist is hooked up to a battery
there’s a demolition derby at the opera house
and I’m gradually going blind since I jerk to excess.
as the days flee past
it gets easier and easier to justify
blowing my face off
like Hemingway or Kurt Cobain
so when you finally call
it’ll already be old news.
I wait for you
like that dog across from the train station did
when the professor died;
that loyal pooch kept coming back
for like a decade
but the professor never arrived.
now there’s a statue instead of the dog
in some city where it’s snowing
somewhere in Japan.
I only know because a film was made about it
in our case I highly doubt a film will be made about it
maybe about the rechargeable therapist
or my face like spaghetti sauce
all over the wall.
This Shell Drifts from Fortune to Fealty
What happened to Harold
listing along the fence or Benjy
in a frothing fury of the mouth?
He lost several layers of skin
from the drag strip to the dunes,
semi-parched subsistence based
on lozenge-enamelled golf balls.
Hayward hills, scarlet ditzes
strip-club coupons irredeemable
from the discotheque to the ditch.
Mt Diablo through benzo scorchers,
buses farting amidst freak rainfall
posting bills indelibly on barbed wire.
Harold turns to Hedwig, then Hank,
blitzkrieg per diem, faux July 4th
Harry at the ready, sneaks behind
Monopoly-money enemy lines, decked
out, second hand thrift-store pinstripes
Exactly what they’re aiming for!
Pieces of Harry pepper the skyline
catapulted chunks of bone and meat,
Watch it, don’t step on that mouth,
perhaps Harry’s still trying to smile
although it could be involuntary
Jay Passer's poetry first appeared in 1988 alongside the work of William Burroughs and Wanda Coleman in Caliban magazine. He's been included in print anthologies and online publications worldwide and is the author of 14 collections. A lifetime plebeian, Passer has laboured as dishwasher, barista, soda jerk, pizza cook, housepainter, courier, warehouseman, bookseller and mortician's apprentice. Originally native of San Francisco, Passer currently resides in Venice, California.
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